


night troubles

by sunarists



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Minor Raven Reyes/Emori, Post-Episode: s04e13 Praimfaya, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sanctum (The 100), Season/Series 01, the ring - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25784635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunarists/pseuds/sunarists
Summary: murphy and bellamy, collectively, are good at plenty of things.sleeping isn't one of them.-alternatively, shared nights over the year
Relationships: Bellamy Blake & Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake/John Murphy, Emori & John Murphy (The 100), Emori & Raven Reyes
Comments: 13
Kudos: 58





	night troubles

**Author's Note:**

> oh.... hey....   
> warnings for this!!   
> mentioned torture (not described at all), mentioned hanging (not described at all)

Silence on the Ark and silence on the Ground are two different things. It's an irrefutable fact, as Murphy shifts in his sleep once more, eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling of the red tent that they called a house.

It's impossible to get comfortable enough for him to fall into the clutches of sleep, no matter how long he shuts his eyes and just _lies_ there, unmoving. The rain keeps him up, and he absently wonders if the drizzle will turn into a storm.

He turns over again. 

On the Ark, silence meant the unstoppable hum of machinery in the background- the crackle of electricity, the beeping of alarms, metal doors sliding open and shut. It meant footsteps patrolling the Skybox, leather boots stomping across floors outside cells. It meant low discussions between officers, creaky beds and faint snoring that floated through the vents. 

Silence is never quiet- Murphy wouldn't know what life would be like without the noise that came with it. 

He hears a crack of thunder, and doesn't bother hiding his flinch. 

The Ground sounds like rain pattering against the tarp of their tent, rivers rushing in the distance, birds chirping in the early hours of the morning. Like twigs snapping and leaves crunching under their feet and firewood spitting in the evenings and people shuffling in their sleep. Like the small group stationed by the wall, whispering in quiet tones to make their hour of watch go by just a little faster. Like Bellamy sleeping in the cot across from him, his breathing deep and even. 

Murphy doesn't know which silence he prefers more. 

He doesn't know which silence feels like _home._

He's experienced too many nights in a row like this- where he'd laid still and let his mind wander or think of absolutely nothing at all. He would clutch at the thin blanket that never managed to keep him warm and close his eyes and pretend to slumber for a measly few seconds-minutes-hours in a poor attempt to trick his body into sleeping. 

It wasn't that he wasn't _tired-_ in fact, he was _exhausted._ The days were long, starting from the moment the sun broke over the horizon and light filtered through their thin tents, and only ended deep into the night when Murphy's muscles were melting from grunt work and he collapsed into his cot if only so he didn't have to stand any longer. 

The thunder strikes again, and Bellamy's breathing stutters. Murphy freezes up, clenching his eyes closed when he hears Bellamy sit up, his bed groaning with the shift in weight, and feels the older man's gaze burning into his face. 

"You're awake." 

It's a statement, not a question, and Murphy curses his tiredness because quite frankly, he's normally a _much_ better actor than this. But he's been caught out, and he lets his eyes fly open while he turns to glare at Bellamy. 

"Unfortunately." 

Even in the dark, Murphy knows Bellamy has a wry smile gracing his features. He can faintly see his outline- broad shoulders and curly hair and sharp cheekbones and _yes,_ Murphy _maybe_ has an unreasonable hero-worship for Bellamy Blake. 

Sue him. 

"Why?" 

A witty retort sits heavily on the tip of his tongue. Murphy doesn't know why it doesn't come out, and he ends up making a soft, choked kind of noise at the back of his throat. 

_Why?_

"I don't know." He ends up muttering, honestly. "Can't sleep." 

Bellamy adjusts himself until he's sitting up properly, crossed legs and facing Murphy. He, in turn, slowly rises as well, propping himself up on sore arms. It feels kind of stupid- kind of like he's seven years old again and he's in the Mbege compartment on the Ark and they're having a sleepover.

If he closes his eyes, maybe this tent on the Ground becomes a blanket fort on the cold metal floor once more. 

"You haven't been sleeping at all." Bellamy accuses. "I hear you tossing and turning every night." 

The red hot feeling of being caught makes Murphy feel uncomfortably warm, and he's immediately on the defensive, hackles raised and eyes narrowed, even if Bellamy couldn't see it. 

"Well, if you hear me, that means you're not sleeping either." He shoots. "Why?" 

The silence-that's-not-quite-silent envelopes them once more as Bellamy seems to mull over the question. Murphy can picture him chewing his lip, brows furrowed as he thinks. 

Bellamy thinks out loud without even moving his lips. It's something Murphy's noticed about him. 

"A lot to take care of." He ends up saying- he sounds so _young,_ so _innocent_ right now, his voice soft and quiet in the night when it's harsh and demanding during the day. "Running camp. Preparing for Grounders. Octavia." 

Murphy feels vaguely uncomfortable, realising that this one sentence is the most Bellamy's shared the inner workings of his mind to possibly _anyone_ in the camp, sans his sister. He feels like he's intruding on something private, like he's taking advantage of Bellamy's not-quite-awake mind. 

"Oh." Is what he answers with. 

Bellamy sighs, and it rolls through the tent till it's all that Murphy hears. 

"You need to sleep." He commands gruffly, and he's back to the Bellamy of the day- the Bellamy that flaunts the pistol that hangs low on his waist and the Bellamy that has no qualms cussing a slacker out and the Bellamy that runs the camp hand in hand alongside Clarke Griffin with an iron fist. 

"I've been _trying_." Murphy hisses sharply. "And _nagging_ me to sleep isn't going to work, so if you have any ideas, feel free to share. Otherwise, shut up and the both of us can lie down and pretend to sleep again." 

It's bold, speaking to Bellamy like this. He's no co-leader- he's not Clarke, who'll tell Bellamy _exactly_ what she thinks of his ambitions and plans _whenever_ she feels. No, he's John Murphy. Delinquent, arsonist, and right hand man with a sharp tongue and a mean face. His job is to scare people into doing theirs and looking to Bellamy for his patented nod of approval. 

It's quiet for a while after his outburst- long enough that Murphy finds himself sinking back down into the bed, dreading the coming hours of sleeplessness that would plague him all the way till the morning. His eyes are trained on Bellamy's still upright figure- the man is frozen there, but Murphy can practically _hear_ the cogs and gears turning in his mind. 

Another sound in the silence of the Ground. 

Bellamy's bed creaks, and Murphy's eyes widen as he watches him stand up- a split second of panic overwhelms him. 

Is he _leaving?_

The thought of it bothers Murphy more than it should. 

But Bellamy doesn't turn towards the tent flaps. He walks straight, till he's hovering over Murphy's bed. 

And then he sits on the edge, only for a second, before sliding under the covers and into Murphy's space like it was his. It's so much _warmer,_ now, and Murphy's face is suddenly very close to Bellamy's. Tired blue meet tired brown, and Murphy's got his lips half parted, mouthing words that won't come out. 

"Good night." Bellamy says firmly, the wear and tear of the hard days softening the edges of his tone. He's just as exhausted as Murphy, and the latter is astonished that he hadn't picked up on it sooner. 

He's got half a mind to push Bellamy right out of his cot and onto the hard floor, but there's something about the heat radiating off him that has Murphy's eyes slowly fluttering, lulling him the closest to sleep he's been in nights. So instead he shifts over further, allowing the larger man a little more space. He doesn't take his eyes off of him, waiting for the moment Bellamy jumps out of the bed, like this is a strange and twisted joke. 

The moment never comes, and Murphy feels himself slowly succumbing to the exhaustion that had plagued him for far too long. 

' _Just tonight.'_ Murphy thinks woozily, as his eyes drift shut with finality. The image of Bellamy's face only inches from his, lashes long and low over his face, his chest rising and falling and breath brushing Murphy's neck just slightly, is seared into his mind as he falls asleep. 

_Just tonight._

* * *

The Ark isn't home, Murphy grows to learn. 

He learns this when he steps back onto the Ring for the first time, his footsteps echoing through cold metal chambers. He learns this when he waits for all the familiar smells and sounds to come back and hit him like a homesick punch to the gut, and instead feels nothing but a mild, bittersweet fondness for this piece of junk in the sky. He learns this when he walks around this rickety old ship, almost half-expecting to see an officer who'll cry out and throw him back into his cell. He learns this when he walks into an old classroom, where he'd jeered at and teased Pike through Earth Skills every day of his adolescence. 

He learns this as he finds himself standing in front of the wide windows, staring down at the yellowed, dried up Earth, another little shard of his fragile heart falling once more as his eyes scan for even a _little_ flash of _green,_ a little flash of _life;_ a little flash that never comes.

He learns this when he and Emori are on different sides of the ship, and one of them is fast asleep and bracketed by the warm body of one Raven Reyes, and the other stares blankly at the wall and wonders if the Ark had always been so _loud._

(Spoiler- he's not the one in bed with Raven.) 

And just like that, he's brought back to the first nights on the Ground, when he thought he'd never sleep again as the sound of _life,_ of Earth and of nature filled his ears with a constant music he hadn't yet gotten used to. 

But he did. 

And it was a strange reversal, as if Murphy was almost full circle. When had he become so used to the Ground that space had become foreign to him? When had the Ark's fluorescent lights become too bright and the sun ducked behind grey clouds had been perfect? 

Was the Ground- the Ground that had shown him fresh air and running water and butterflies that glowed in the dark and animals that ran freely- home? The Ground that had a sun that pinked his cheeks and rain that soaked his clothes and mountains so tall that he wondered how the Ark hadn't bumped into the peaks of them?

The Ground that had chewed him up and spat him out, bloodied his knuckles and dirtied his conscience and broken and fixed him in every way. The Ground that had poisoned his people with fear and gave them a tree to hang him, then banish him- the Ground who's people had tortured and diseased him- the Ground that had forced Murphy's finger to the trigger of a gun that pointed up his chin.

Was the Ground _home?_

It's been two years since Praimfaya, and Murphy still can't find his footing. 

His unending train of thought is interrupted suddenly by his door sliding open. The light from space is enough to illuminate Bellamy in his doorway, haggard and slumping. He's got a stubble dusting his chin and his eyes are circled black and bloodshot and his lips are downturned and Murphy's a little miserable when he looks at him. 

"Hi." Bellamy says cautiously. 

_Please let me in._

"Hi." Murphy mutters back. 

_Just come._

Bellamy patters over to Murphy quietly, carefully, standing awkwardly at the end of Murphy's bed. It's just like that night on the Ground, like they're in that flimsy red tent and it's raining outside and the thin blankets do nothing to keep the cold out. 

Murphy raises the corner of the covers wordlessly, and Bellamy crawls underneath them. The small bed is a tight squeeze for two grown men, but they're pressed flush against one another. Murphy would probably be uncomfortable if he wasn't so _tired,_ possessed by melancholy that kept him awake for hours and hours on end until he would pass out because his body couldn't take it anymore. 

"Thanks." Bellamy mumbles. He looks years older, now- his eyes are sad, no longer alight with the spitfire and gravitas that had made him the perfect leader, one half of a deadly whole. 

Clarke is dead, and Bellamy seems to have lost himself more than he realises. 

"What's wrong?" Murphy murmurs tentatively. He and Bellamy- and Raven, and Monty, and Harper and Emori and Echo- they've all they've got, now. Friends, family- Murphy doesn't know the right word for it, and he doesn't need one either.

He just knows. 

"Do you-" Bellamy stutters, for a moment. A rare imperfection his speech- he didn't make mistakes often, and it always unnerved Murphy when he did. Maybe some part of Murphy, deep down, still only knew the Bellamy that taught him to throw knives with practiced finesse, the Bellamy that drove Clarke crazy with his flippant attitude and cuff-breaking.

The Bellamy that hung him with cold eyes and a calculated gaze. 

Murphy shakes himself out of it. That Bellamy doesn't exist anymore. 

"Do you think she's still alive?" He finishes. His voice is admirably stable, even after the small slip-up. Murphy doesn't need to ask who _she_ is. There is only one _she._

Murphy would be lying if he said he didn't think about Clarke every day. They'd _all_ be lying. 

"No." He whispers, but it's deafeningly loud, echoing through the room and bouncing off one wall to another. 

Bellamy exhales sharply. It's a truth, Murphy's truth, but even he knows it's a harsh one.

"Yeah." He says, his voice tinged with sadness. "I'm not sure anymore, either." 

And to that- well-

Murphy doesn't know what to say. 

He'd never seen Bellamy lose hope like this, not after two years of staring down at Earth with as if he'd be able to see the little speck of life he wished was Clarke. It was a terrifying thing to watch. 

"Sleep." Murphy nudges him, for lack of anything better to say. It seems to jolt Bellamy out of his reverie, and the man blinks back at him, slowly. 

"Okay." He says simply. 

Murphy doesn't fall asleep, not right away. He does feel strangely comforted by Bellamy's presence in his bed, the assuring warmth and the rhythmic breathing. It's always helped, but he's not sure if he's comfortable admitting it to himself. Not yet. 

Eventually, thought, the rise and fall of his chest matches Bellamy's, and they sleep curled around one another, unified in grief, in mourning for all they've lost and all they had. 

The Ground, so close, yet just out of reach once more. 

Almost full circle. 

* * *

Sanctum is beautiful. 

But it's not Earth. 

Sanctum doesn't have the easy liveliness that Earth had. Earth had felt so _natural,_ so shockingly fresh and comfortable, in some sense of the word.

But here- here, there's something eerie about the colours of the buildings under the two red suns that makes it look almost garish- something about how the people walk around with smiles so large that it splits their faces- something about how they move in complete synchrony during their tai chi (their _tai chi!)_ and it just feels so _robotic._ Forced. 

Murphy's had enough of robots in his lifetime; ALIE, may she rest in eternal damnation, was all the technological trauma he'd needed to be mildly creeped out by the people of Sanctum and their seemingly perfect little homes in their perfect little robes on their perfect little planet. 

But, well- they'd grown to find that the planet was far from perfect. 

It's been a few days, since he's _died._ It hasn't really sunk in, apparently, but he _died_ and came back to life via _snake bite_ and it's all so _bizarre._ Bizarre enough that he's pacing his room in the wee hours of the morning instead of sleeping like the rest of the city is. 

Bellamy tried to _kill_ him.

And Murphy feels guilty, because he wants to tack on " _again_ " at the end of that sentence.

They'd all made their fair share of mistakes. There was no black and white, no such thing as the perfect soldier, the perfect warrior, the perfect leader, the perfect _survivor._ It was an accident, it was the red sun toxin, but it's put a low, quiet distance between the two of them. Like Bellamy is walking eggshells around him and Murphy just wants to forget that he'd breathed his last breath yet lived to tell the tale. 

Bellamy wouldn't harm him. Murphy _knows_ this. Bellamy's _proved_ it.

He proved it when the ship in Eden was about to take off _forever_ and he'd stood and _acted_ and made sure Murphy slid in before the doors shut. 

Yet some niggling feeling in the back of Murphy's mind remains. 

Had he proved that he valued Murphy's life, or was he making up for all the times he hadn't? 

Somehow, in the midst of all his idle thinking, he'd paced all the way out his door and across the tavern's second floor hallway to a standstill in front of the door on the end. He's already got a hand on the doorknob of Bellamy's room. 

He hesitates. Breathes in. 

And he swings the door open. 

Breathes out. 

Bellamy's jerked up, hand raised and fingers curled tightly around the handle of a small knife. Murphy doesn't feel threatened- he'd be surprised if Bellamy _hadn't_ reacted that way. 

"Just me." Murphy mutters, dragging socked feet along the polished wooden floors. He watches as Bellamy visibly sags, tucking his knife back under the pillow, already scooting over to make room. 

"This place is weird." Bellamy breathes lowly, resting his head on one end of the pillow, facing Murphy, who lay on the other end. It's familiar- no longer does Murphy feel a deep, underlying sense of discomfort, being so close to him. Their legs tangle underneath the covers and Murphy is _warm._

"Tell me about it." He mumbles back, the ache of the snake bite pulsing through his torso. Murphy knows that Bellamy knows what he's talking about, and the older man is ready to open his mouth, another apology spilling out of his mouth. 

"Don't." Murphy interjects quietly, and Bellamy's mouth snaps shut. "It's fine." 

"It's _not_ fine." Bellamy hisses, and Murphy would've thought he was angry at _him_ if he didn't already know that Bellamy was just angry at himself. 

"I'm alive." Murphy surprises himself by bringing his hand up to brush Bellamy's cheek, fingers trailing over his beard. If Bellamy felt any way about it, he didn't show it- the only reaction he had whatsoever was his eyes widening, just a slight fraction. 

"I'm still sorry." Bellamy whispers, and he's tired, those dark bags under his eyes weighing his eyelids shut. Murphy can feel himself melting under the covers as well, just like he always did. 

"I know." Murphy says back, and the two of them are quiet again. Crickets from outside, in the city of Sanctum, are the only sounds that pierce the silence of the night. 

Murphy falls asleep with his hand on Bellamy's chest. 

* * *

The white house is easily the nicest place Murphy's ever stayed. It's not the Skybox, it's not Earth, it's not the Ring, and it's _certainly_ not the dingy rooms on the second floor of Sanctum's tavern.

There's plenty of things he loves about the big old house on the peak of the hill.

One- it was close enough to Sanctum that they weren't completely alone, but far enough that Murphy and his people could carve out a life of their own. A little cobbled path that rounded the hill made the short walk to the markets and taverns simple enough. 

Two- the structure laid on a soft, grassy hill, dotted with flowers of delicate pinks, blues, purples, _everything._ When the weather was good- which, frankly, it always was- they did stupid family things, like picnics, or birthday parties. Secretly, Murphy loved it. He'd never admit it out loud. 

Three- the house was never quiet. How could it be, when so many people called it home? All too often, Murphy would be awoken by chatter floating up from the kitchen, where Clarke and Gaia would enjoy a pot of tea while Raven and Emori got ready to go to the machine shop. Octavia would bound through glass sliding doors, visiting her family when Gabriel was busy tinkering with his machines.

This particular night, Murphy is curled up on the porch chair in his pajamas, a lukewarm glass of water clutched tight in his fingers. Emori sits next to him, waiting for Raven to return from her visit to Echo's, and they share a blanket. They don't have to speak, and they don't need to. 

It's one of those evenings where Murphy is overwhelmed by the unbelievable story that's been his _life._ how things had changed from that morning the Skybox officers had grabbed him roughly around his armpits and strapped him into a ship and sent them to _die_ only for them to not only survive, but _live._ Maybe, tentatively, Murphy thinks they're thriving, now.

It just- it just boggles his mind, sometimes. Often. All the time.

Whatever.

Emori seems to be thinking the same thing- the _frikdreina,_ the thief, the mechanic, the pilot. Had she expected to be thrown into space and live, when she'd tried to rob Murphy and Jaha that faithful day? 

He supposes not. 

"Hey." 

A low, gruff voice sounds from the doorway. Bellamy's strong figure is leaned against the glass door, smiling at the two of them fondly. He's tired, but the normal kind. Not the miserable kind, not the kind that comes with days of overthinking and planning and fighting and killing. 

No, just the kind they get when it's late at night. 

"Isn't it past your bedtime, old man?" Emori teases. Murphy fights a chuckle- it's no secret that Bellamy _does_ have some old man tendencies. Like wool coats that smell vaguely like mothballs and reading all day long with glasses sitting low on his nose and going to sleep early. 

"Yes." He affirms, rolling his eyes before directing his attention to Murphy. "So come to bed." 

It's nice, that Murphy has a bed to call his. Not just that, but someone to _share_ it with too. The same sense of satisfaction always trickles through him, hearing Bellamy say those words. 

_Come to bed._

Murphy realises, with no lack of happiness, that he'll always have someone to share with as long as Bellamy is around. 

"Fine." He says pompously, pressing a quick peck to Emori's cheek in lieu of a good night. Bellamy grabs his hand, interlocking their fingers as Murphy slides past him. 

He scoffs, but doesn't let go, leading him up the stairs to the second floor and to the third door on their right. They slip into their room, their shared space, locking the door behind them . 

On the walls are pictures, paintings, even a silly little drawing of the two of them that Madi had made at school. There's a half-alive plant sitting on the quaint windowsill, wilting from their neglect, and stacks of books lining Bellamy's side of the room. They no longer keep their knives under their pillows, and even tuck their guns into drawers, out of reach. 

Murphy collapses onto the bed and on top of the duvet, eliciting a mildly irritated growl from Bellamy as he tries to tug it out from under him. 

"Get _up."_ He whines, sounding morbidly childish for someone older than him. Murphy snickers, but complies, sliding underneath the blanket and flicking his lamp off. 

"Someone's cranky." He comments idly. Bellamy scowls. 

"Yeah, because _someone_ drank a little too much at the party the other day and _snored_ the whole night." He grumbles, and the bed sinks with his weight as he settles down next to Murphy. 

"Don't know who you're talking about." Murphy yawns innocently. "But he sounds fun." 

Bellamy curls around him, bracketing Murphy's leaner, smaller body with his, and tucking his chin into the crook of his shoulder. 

"Eh." He mumbles tiredly. "He's okay." 

"Good enough." Murphy declares, as he shuts his eyes, smiling only slightly when Bellamy tightens his grip around his waist. Bellamy makes a noncommittal noise in response. 

Murphy feels Bellamy's heartbeat against his back. And as he drifts off into a dreamless sleep, he can't get over how _warm_ he is. 

The Skybox had never been home. The Ground had been close. The Ring was just an empty house for his family. They'd given Sanctum a shot, but this big white house on top of the grassy hill _truly_ had Murphy's heart. 

Silence here, at _home,_ meant Bellamy's even breathing into his neck, the sound of Raven pattering on the porch below as she came back and greeted Emori, the river rushing below the hill, and the clatter of Clarke's paintbrushes and palettes as she worked late into the night just because she _could._

It was nice, being home. 

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter, as always, is @505daytime ! kudos and comments are appreciated <3


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